Clandestine
by Love-your-suit
Summary: 47 finds himself in Los Angeles for a seemingly unnecessary leave of absence. His week off from contract killing might convince him that the time away from work was more essential to his humanity than he had at first imagined.
1. Chapter 1

47 was happy with the reprieve he was finally given. He had a week of time off thanks to a quickly healing bullet wound to his side. He could easily have protested the idea with a scoff, and a wave of his hand, he would have his next mission. The idea of a break from his life of the same old routines performed in a never ending string of hotel rooms was attractive to say the least, so he accepted.

Since so much of his time was spent in Europe he decided to go to the least European place he could think of; Los Angeles. With it's bustling crowds and self-obsessed people he could easily blend in. Despite being on vacation, his guns remained in their holster. Even with the left pistol rubbing against the stitches hidden under his pristine white shirt, he didn't shift to accommodate.

His choice of cafe was dictated by his ability to be well hidden should there be a sniper around, and there being just the right amount of patrons. It wasn't overcrowded and it wasn't barren. Perfect for him to blend in. He was further brought to ease with his choice by the warm scent of coffee and breakfast pastries that entered his senses as he stepped inside, escaping from the smoggy city.

A few minutes, and dollars. later and he was able to relax into a seat at a small table, his back facing the wall so he could keep an eye on the entire world around him. He scanned the cafe as he did each new place he entered, making a note of all exits and all possible weapons.

The shop was like any other in America, everything a shade of items from the baristas. The walls were a milk-foam cream, the floor tiles alternating in a rich coffee color and a milky tea color. All the tables and chairs seemed to be a shade of brown, from caramel to nearly black for trim and frames. The windows were large enough to see through, but they didn't let in a blinding amount of sun, even being in Southern California in the summertime.

His eyes fell on a woman a short distance away, enthralled in her book with her hair down and catching the light of the sun. He had meant to do a quick sweep of the place, and he finished his task but found his eyes drawn to her again. Everyone else was dull, boring, too focused on typing away on their fancy laptops, or reading their electronic books. Some were rudely chatting on their phones, but 47 knew well what to expect in Los Angeles. What had drawn him back to the woman was the fact she was reading an actual book. He hadn't realized how almost rare they had become until he noticed she was the only one handling actual paper.

Her small hands tug carefully at a chocolate croissant, as if she would hurt it by pulling on it too sharply, sticky bits of melting chocolate just barely coat her finger tips, catching the flaking crumbs of her meal. Her black house coffee mirrors his, and her expression is that of a small, adoring smile, as if the book she is reading is something dear to her. And 47 can't help but find it odd, how she wears her skirt suit and manages to look so soft, so small and vulnerable. His suits make him look so sharp, so powerful, that the idea that someone can look as she does leaves him dumbstruck.

There's something beautiful about it, he decides, his sharp blue eyes taking in her features as he curls his hand around his mug, his middle and ring finger shifting into the space of the handle. From the way her nose wrinkles at something within her book, to the tentative manner in which she sucks the chocolate off the pads of her fingers. So intent on her book, and the manner of her cleaning so innocent, it ends up not seeming impolite.

She glances up then, right as he is about to look away, and he's caught. His eyes lock with hers, his mug brushing against his lips as he was about to take a sip. She smiles, however, the corners of her eyes crinkling. Even from here, 47 can see faint scars. Blunt force, likely with a fist, and his eyes instantly look for other signs to determine what the story is there, but her voice pulls his eyes back up to hers without hesitation.

"Long week, hmm?" she asks of him, and her voice is softer than he believed it would be. It's automatically kind, gentle. She slowly rests her chin on the back of her hand, a bit of chocolate still clinging to her thumb and middle finger, and he takes the chance to observe her knuckles. No damage, no callous. Whatever happened, she never fought back.

As his eyes return to hers she realizes something is off about him, but she can't place what it is. It doesn't startle her, and she's happy to lean forward a bit, studying him and that single splash of color via his blood red full windsor knotted tie. It makes her smile a little larger, exposing a few teeth and causing her nose to wrinkle in her own amusement.

She takes the time to study the strength in his jaw, able to see just how developed the muscle is thanks to his shaven head. She is desperately trying to figure him out, in these few moments as she observes him, watching the subtle shift of his arm to allow the coffee past his lips.

47 is thankful, in this moment, to have gotten as much social training as he had. He smiles politely, taking his sip of his bitter coffee before slowly lowering it. "Long few years," he returned, his voice holding a gravel to it she didn't fully expect. It's a rough voice, one not used to endearments and warmth. For some reason, it causes her heart to drop a bit.

She responds with a laugh, however, getting rid of the rest of that pesky chocolate before tucking some of her curly hair back. "I know the feeling," she admitted, straightening her posture. She rests back against the back of her seat, and he finds that she manages to look even softer. He has to laugh to himself, but thankfully it seems as if he's laughing at her words.

"Any reason why you picked LA for a vacation?" she asked suddenly, though it doesn't seem demanding. His head tips just slightly and his eyes narrow a little, but he plays it cool, leaning forward and pinning his tie with the fingertips of one of his hands. "What gives you the idea I'm vacationing?" he asks in turn. He's trying to be coy, that's how you act with women, right? His training was basic, made for blending in. He knows how to joke with another, but it's a fractional small-talk skill, at best.

At this closer distance she can spot a mark under his left eye and it tugs a small smile from her lips. "Oh, that's easy. You're not in the business district, but you're dressed with a tie and cuff links, yet no briefcase," she said, tapping her own at her feet with the side of one of her t-strap heels.

His eyes flash to her briefcase and he glances back to her for a moment in something akin to awe. He covers himself directly after with a shrug of his muscular shoulders. "Very astute. Admirable quality," he complimented, but turned it right around on her. "I'd wager you're a lawyer," he said, nodding his head to her. Her heels were sensible, her suit was tailored but it wasn't high end like his were, nor was it tailored to hide anything. A simple suit of charcoal with a purple dress shirt, something she easily could have gotten off the rack.

The woman smiled, holding her hands in the air as if unarmed. "A. C. Makem, criminal defense. But seeing as we're not in a professional setting, feel free to call me Arleen," she introduced. Her unarmed position had made some deep part of him twitch, half an itch to draw his weapon automatically, half in despair that, even playfully, she put her hands up in surrender towards him. He had seen many people make that exact posture, but something about it coming from the soft woman before him gave him an odd sick feeling.

He washes it down with a sip of his coffee, though something still remains there. "Malcolm Tatcher," he offered to her, unconsciously copying her posture. He also couldn't help himself from copying the smile that grew on her face.

"It's a pleasure, Malcolm," she returned, her nose wrinkling up again. She is clearly a very open person, very trusting. Most women would have bared their teeth and sneered in disgust to catch someone watching her, and yet she was happy to greet him for it. Perhaps she was lonely, he wondered. There was no ring on her finger, in fact there was no jewelry to speak of. However, there's something about the way she looks at him, there's nothing desperate there, nothing longing and gasping for any possible companion. No, she merely just was a genuinely friendly person.

"The pleasure is mine, I assure you," he whispered, unaware of the lowering in volume in his voice, but he just found himself taken by the way her nose wrinkled when she smiled as she did. His blue eyes locked onto her bright hazel eyes and he licked his lips to gain his courage. "I'll be here for about a week. Would you be interested in dinner, perhaps? If I may be so bold?" he asked, surprising himself with the sudden request. But her way of treating everything was so damn refreshing he almost couldn't help himself. Besides, if this were to be his vacation he wanted to take the time to actually relax.

She smiled another one of those genuine, eye crinkling smiles. As much as he was, already, growing fond of them, they made his stomach churn. It was only when she smiled in that particular way that he was able to see those scars on her milky, freckled skin.

She's unaware of his scanning. She's smiling politely, and genuinely, sure, but within her mind she is fighting a battle. She hadn't been on a date since she and her husband were still in the spring of their marriage, and that was nearly a decade ago. She hadn't been alone with a man who wasn't a client of hers, in any capacity, for 6 years. But she's trusting, foolishly so, and the loneliness within her wins out of any reservations. So she agrees with a slight nod of her head. "I'm free tonight, infact."

He brightened a bit, his posture straightening. She's smiling again and it's so sheepish yet bright it tugs at something he thought had been completely squashed by his childhood. His smile is completely genuine as he returns it to her, his heart racing at the idea of doing something normal, something human, something that wasn't dictated he do by the Agency. "Does 6:30 suit you?" he asked with an almost shocking level of tenderness to his voice. A part of him catches himself and warns him to just kill her once he gets her alone.

He's almost dead set on the idea until she hands him her business card and he sees the fact that she has her home address written on it. This vulnerable little soft woman before him didn't stand a chance. He wondered just how she had managed to survive for so long, his pale eyes lifting from the cream colored cardstock. "You shouldn't have any trouble. My house is the only one there and it's right by the highway," she offers pleasantly, innocently.

His jaw is slackening a bit and he wants to shake her, ask her if she's trying to get herself killed. She can't be ignorant to the darkness in this world, not if she's a criminal defense lawyer. Not with those scars on her face. She knows damn good and well. And he can't figure out if she is offering misplaced trust, or if she is merely foolish.

He doesn't get much time to further dwell in her presence. Her phone is vibrating in her jacket and she quickly swigs down the rest of her cold coffee while she glances to her watch before checking what message she just received. "I'm afraid my lunch is over, Malcolm. But I look forward to 6:30," she offered, smiling a warm smile in his direction.

Without thought he returned the smile, and the slight wave. She cleans up her area with courtesy he isn't used to, and he observes her as she leaves. Her step is confident and he wonders if she isn't all innocence and naivety. Part of himself warns that he's being paranoid. The other half reminds him that paranoia has kept him alive this far.


	2. Chapter 2

Arleen spent her day with her head in the clouds, musing over the stranger she had met. She couldn't tell if he was handsome in his own right, or if it was symptom of being lonely. She managed to get out of work a little earlier than she normally would have. She was the type to spend all day long pouring over her work, and not getting out of the firm until well after dark.

She lived beyond the city, in Malibu, on a small beachfront property where she could scream bloody murder from the roof and not be heard. She'd never had a problem, she always gave her everything for her clients, and had been lucky enough to have avoided any backlash for her kindness.

She had enough time to shower and do her best to get her hair to behave, getting herself into a little black dress and accenting it with long silver earrings and a thin necklace that fell into the exposed dip of her collarbone. The only makeup she bore was a hit of eyeliner to make her eyes stand out just a bit more than they did naturally.

No matter what she did to one of her curls it refused to tuck away, so she gave up and allowed it to frame her face as she pinned back the rest of the front of her hair with a silver clip. Most of her hair continued to keep to her shoulders, but the clip kept her hair from being a complete mess. Lucky for her it was the summer as well, as she didn't really need anything other than the dress.

47 was prompt as he always was, not that she could know yet. He had been completely absorbed by her, something he chalked up to not knowing what it was like, to actually bask in someone's company. It was so rare that he interacted with anyone he wasn't going to kill, and there was something about her that hooked him in, something that made him feel things he didn't believe he could, and he had only known this woman a very short time. Though he remained on the fence with her. He wanted to kill her for his own sake, she was too innocent, too quiet, and he feared what she may be. However, when she greeted him at her front door he could find nothing to tell him she was something to be wary of. There were no hidden weapons on her person, he would have been able to spot that in a second. It was almost aggravating that she wasn't trying to kill him yet, if that was her plot.

She was laughing softly, utterly enamored with the fact he was just in a different version of what he had been wearing earlier. "Decided the white shirt red tie ensemble worked so well you should wear it again? But, not the same one," she observes, one of those delicate hands catching the end of his tie, studying it. A warmth moved through his chest and down into his stomach at their closeness, at her touching his tie. For some reason, he was allowing it, despite his distrust. In fact, he was almost looking forward to the next time she would grab his tie as her fingers slid from the silk.

47 further finds himself frustrated at the fact her dress is considered modest, but it shows enough of her skin, which pleasantly surprises him in that it appears to be freckled all over, that he instantly wants to know the rest. He can see her collarbone, the necklace and earrings serve only to show off her pale, thin neck. Easy to kill her, to get his garrotte around her neck. And yet, the last thing he wants to do to her in this moment is kill her. He can only see just above her knee, and though the freckles are lessened they are there just the same.

"How was your day?" she asks as he is admiring the width of her hips and his icy eyes zipped up to her warm ones. "Long," he answered, his lips curling away from his teeth in amusement. She laughs a soft, sympathetic laugh. "Aww, but you're on vacation," she whispered, pouting to him. He tightens his eyes against the quiet sexual desires flinging through his mind and body at everything she does. Not knowing a woman's touch or company, everything she did seemed to send a jolt through him. He'd never had a vacation, and as he was squeaking out of his mid-30's it was time he enjoyed life before he faced 'retirement'.

Those powerful shoulders of his offer her a shrug again, and now she's biting her bottom lip. Is she blushing? She is, and he finds the way her freckles disappear into the rosy color as fascinating as he finds the freckles themselves. They're getting off track and he wants to get them on their way or they're likely to never make it.

"Are you ready then?" he asks of her, unconsciously leaning into her, just a bit. She smells like berries and vanilla and while it's difficult for him to get a lock on her actual scent he's enjoying the scent of her perfumed bodywash. She's taking in his scent as well, even as she busies herself with the locking of her front door. He smells like blood, gun metal, black powder, and a multitude of other rough scents. In the end of it all, however, he smells dangerous. And yet, she still accepts his offered arm without hesitation, allowing him to lead her to his car.

She's surprised by the amount of muscle he has under his suit, and he's trying desperately to keep her from feeling the gun at his side. He is experiencing something human and good and he doesn't want it ruined. He doesn't want to see a look of fear on her face.

She remains blissfully unaware, and settles into the passenger seat with a whisper of thanks. He isn't great at small talk, but he realizes he never asked about her day, so he returns her previous question and allows her to speak most of the drive. He doesn't find it dull, even as she is doing her best to make her day out to be. Court hearings and vague explanations regarding her current cases that she dealt with today. He is more than a little amused at her clear disbelief that any of her clients could possibly be guilty. It also dares him to hope that she wouldn't respond poorly to his work, though he isn't ready to drop that knowledge on her just yet. Why he keeps considering things as yet confuses him, but he can't help it. Which, in it's own way, is terrifying. He is used to being in complete control. There is something refreshing about it, and so he allows it.

She's dainty and polite, submissive in a way, and it scrapes at the most primal parts of himself, yet at the same time it reminds him of the scars on her face, the ones he can see so much easier as he holds the door open for her. He's annoyed at the swell of protective desire that floods him, but he never shows a tell. The restaurant is some Italian place, and 47 has to remind himself the people here wouldn't speak Italian. He's too used to Italy, too used to having to speak every different language and dialect in order to fit in seamlessly.

The food smells almost like several of the restaurants he frequented in Italy, though the patrons are decidedly not worldly, despite how much they clearly thought they were. He glanced to Arleen and realized she must not have traveled far, she seems quite taken by the mingling scents of bread, pasta, tomato, cheese, basil, and wine. He places his hand on the small of her back once the host offers to lead them to a table. 47 takes the time during their walk for him to sweep the place as he always did. No one was too close to the table they were being led to, which pleases him greatly. The restaurant was on the gaudy side, the carpet a bright red, cream walls with a lot of green, trying to create a colors of Italy feel.

Arleen finds herself taken by his unintentional charm, and she's all smiles as they settle into their seats. It's no five star place, but Arleen prefers it that way. She's very humble that way, and he admires it. Humility is something he is severely lacking in. Though he is humble enough to admit his fallback, so it's progress.

The silence between them is strong, and penetrative, but thankfully their waiter is quick in showing up with two glasses of ice water. He's thin, the type of dime-a-dozen man out here near Hollywood but he just doesn't have a distinctive enough look to him. 47 does take the time to observe the old injuries that are visible to him. A break to his arm, likely something that happened when he was a child, but 47 is able to pick up on it with ease.

He feels refreshed that Arleen doesn't simper and fuss about what to order. A seafood ravioli in a creamy tomato sauce, and 47 can't help but find something amusing about it. Despite not knowing much about her, other than what he can deduce and what little she's told, for some reason it suits her. He's bland in his tastes, he has been trained to be, so he orders a standard spaghetti without a thought.

"So, you never did answer why you picked Los Angeles to vacation in," she whispered after their waiter had left them again, her slender fingers playing with the condensation on her glass of water. She pulls her hand away when she realizes she is fiddling, tucking that stray curl back out of her face. It doesn't take long for it to return to her jaw, and he fights an amused smile at the annoyed look on her face.

"You know, I'm not sure," he admitted, smiling enough to show his teeth to her. "Glad I picked it, however," he offers, dragging his voice to a whisper just like hers, even though she seems to be perpetually whispering. He feels triumph in her flush as it covers her cheeks, but he doesn't get much time for silent gloating, their waiter bringing by bread and distracting the two of them.

She picks at her bread right away, treating it just like she had treated the croissant that afternoon. 47 tips his head as he observes her with his penetrative gaze. "Was that half eaten croissant the only thing you ate today?" he asked gently, studying her careful hands.

She glances to him, and his eyes automatically shoot up to meet hers, and she smiles gently, unperturbed by the gaze of the killer across from her. "I'm normally much better about eating," she promises, answering his question in the most round about of ways. Oddly, it doesn't anger him.

He offers her a chuckle, and he feels that unfamiliar warmth sink into his chest again as she wrinkles her nose at him. He keeps her talking about her work as best he can, and gives vague answers when she asks after his career. Their food doesn't take long to show up and he finds himself further amused when she remains just as dainty as ever, despite how hungry he knows she must be.

With food in front of them their chatting dies, but each find the others presence more than enough. Once he can see her starting to slow he asks, "Why Malibu? You seemed to find the idea of just vacationing here funny, yet you live here." He points lightly at her, his fork prongs down in his pasta, his hand curled over the handle until he's done speaking and then he returns to the proper hold to continue eating.

She perks at the question, listening to him with an interest he's never seen directed at him. She flushes and again tries to tuck away that thick curl, and again fails at it. "Well, I love the ocean. I don't think I could survive away from it. And I don't like the cold," she explained gently.

"There are other places that fit that bill, and they're better than here," he pointed out, his tone matching hers in how gentle it is, which he hates but can't manage to correct. It seems unnatural for him to speak this way, and yet the desire takes over when speaking to her.

"Yes, of course there are, but Los Angeles has a good crime rate. I do still need work," she bantered in return, her eyes crinkling. He feels so torn yet again over that expression, over the scars he can now see no matter the lighting. He wonders if it will ease with time, and then instantly berates himself. This isn't a lasting thing. In fact, he should kill her when he gets her home. Secluded, quiet, no one would hear or find her until she didn't show up for work.

He decides to give her a 'you win' expression, shrugging his shoulders and making a non-committal noise. She mirrors it back playfully and he can't help but smile for a moment. She smiles brightly, happily, as she catches his smile. He finds it so intriguing that something so simple and small brought her such instant joy.

He manages to slow his eating enough for them to end roughly around the same time, but even still she shoots him an apologetic look. He waves off her concern with a silent wave of his hand, and he's pleased to see her muscles loosen in response. "You're ready, then, Arleen?" he asked of her, savoring her name on his tongue.

She nodded, begrudgingly allowing him to pay for the meal, something she is clearly unused to. 47 makes note of it, and tells himself he'd fix that before again berating himself. He offers her his hand to help her out of her chair, and once she's on her feet he moves her hand to the crook of his elbow. She follows him with ease, as if they'd done this a thousand times.

He finds himself nervous again, worrying over her and her odd acceptance of everything. He sets his mind to it, he'll kill her when he gets her home. He'll make it quick, he doesn't want to second guess himself on this. In his line of work, in his life, he doesn't have the luxury of second guesses. Everything has to be right the first time, no questions asked.

He's so focused on how exactly he's going to kill her that he makes the fatal mistake of not paying complete attention to his surroundings. All he feels is the faintest of tugs to his arm, but it's enough to snap him out of his thoughts and as he looks to his side he locks his eyes onto man who had popped out from the mouth of an alley they were walking past. A cheaply made Glock 19 knockoff in one hand, and Arleen's forearm in the other.

His heart rate spikes for one moment, but resettles almost instantly to keep his mind clear and focused, a lesson from his childhood training that always did him well. Confusion is what hits him next as he realized Arleen never made a sound, other than to suck in a deeper breath of air. She still isn't, her mouth and airway were clear, she could be screaming her head off now, but she isn't. In fact, she doesn't even seem all that scared for the moment, though he can see her trembling at the feeling of the gun pressing against her cheek.

Something close to fury replaces the confusion. His anger is a scattered mess, anger from being so distracted this happened, anger that of all people to get some sort of jump on him it's a druggie looking for a fix, and even more he's angry at Arleen. She still isn't screaming, she isn't calling for help. In fact, she seems to be whispering to the man she is pointedly not looking at, trying to sympathize with him. She isn't even looking to 47, she isn't begging him to save her, not even silently.

This man has no idea what storm he has just brought upon himself, no clue what man he just angered. And still he's demanding money while 47 can only stand there, startled by the sheer stupidity of the man before him, and the faith Arleen seems to have in this madman with a gun. The man in question is growing confused, why isn't this well dressed man jumping to the defense of the woman who is clearly his date? He glanced to Arleen as if to find some form of confirmation and that's when 47 struck.

He knew each gun intimately, a knockoff was no different. His hand shot out to catch the man by his hand and gun, twisting his arm down painfully, already working on disassembling the pistol. The parts of the gun end up scattered before the man can finish his yelp of surprise and pain, and all he is holding is the empty, useless body of the gun.

Instantly he releases Arleen, and the gun, and attempts to slug 47 in the face with a good right cross. 47's arm shot up, blocking it with the outside of his forearm before twisting and lowering his hand, catching the man's wrist. His anger is growing higher, this is ridiculous and he, frankly, doesn't have it in him to deal with a lowlife like this.

With a firm grip on his forearm he smacked his hand over his mouth, twisting his arm and jerking it down, dislocating the shoulder with practiced ease. Even though his screech of pain is muffled, 47 doesn't want to even hear what little sound does make it past his hand. He grabs the man by the back of his neck and using his new grip on his head he drags him down to drive his hardened knee into his ribs.

The cracking of bones finally pulls a sound from Arleen, but it's nothing more than a very small gasp, her hands going up to her face for just a moment before her hands stretch out forward. "Malcolm, Malcolm, stop. You could get murder if you don't stop," she begs of him, her eyes wide. Whatever fear is in her voice isn't due to the situation, isn't caused by the faint indent of a gun in her pale cheek or the darkened hand mark around her arm, it's for him. 47 glares at her, completely confused. He's ready to kill a man in front of her with his bare hands and her only worry seems to be regarding what charge he could possibly get if found out.

One sharp kick to the knee is the last blow 47 bothers to land, dropping the man like a hot stone in the stinking alleyway. Arleen's shaking hands find 47's arm, and she clutches onto the fabric. He coos at her, unaware of himself doing it, but he tugs her away from the alley and back for his car. Still she isn't screaming, she never begged for her life, nor begged for him to save her. This woman couldn't hurt a fly. She truly is just an innocent, trusting, naive woman, and nothing more. He tucks her curl back for her as he finally gets them to his car. "You're alright, now," he promises her gently, his hands shifting to her biceps to try and settle her down.

Her petite hands find his lapels and she tucks herself against his chest, her nose pressing into his chest to one side of his tie, her breathing hard with her fright. His hands awkwardly curl and uncurl, held in the air where her biceps had once been. He slowly drags in a deeper breath, easing his hands onto her back, as if fearful the very touch would burn him. He can hear her whisper something about calling for an ambulance for the man, and 47 unintentionally scoffs lightly at her. "An ambulance? A man just held a gun in your face and you want to get him medical help?" he questioned, tucking his head down so he can almost see her face.

"He's likely in a lot of pain right now," she whispers, as if that makes it better, as if it forces it to make sense. 47 presses his lips into a tight line, smoothing his hands away from her back, catching her jaw and coaxing her away from his chest. It only works so well, her hands clutching at his well fitting white button down, one hand half tangling into his tie again. Something about her grip on his tie makes his knees weak, and he glances around to please her, though why he isn't sure.

He's in luck, however, there's a group of men walking by the alley and 47 calls to them, "Oh, my god. Is that man alright?" The young men spot him and instantly spring into action, but 47 is drawn back to Arleen against his chest. She had flinched when he raised his voice, and now she's looking positively sheepish and she's drawing away from him as if embarrassed. If he wants to get them out of here before they have to answer any questions, he needs to do it now.

She studies him, watching those powerful looking shoulders slump into a loosened position. She can tell, he isn't relaxed, he hasn't been this entire time. She gives him an innocently curious look, but it seems to only churn his stomach, as he's looking away from her now. She can almost see the tattoo of the barcode on the back of his bald head from this angle, as he gestures into the car. He turns that sharp gaze onto her once again and she feels her chest constrict. "Your mugger has been taken care of. Shall we?" he asks of her, offering her his hand.

As she slides her slender hand into his large, warm palm he brushes his thumb across her knuckles, wanting to confirm what he already knew. Regret and guilt fill him as he realizes she is likely shaking because of some type of fear of violence, or maybe it went as deep as to be something relating to post traumatic stress. The mere idea made his insides boil, and again he chided himself for getting so invested so quickly. Though, he's never felt a touch like hers. He's never been spoken to as she speaks to him, never looked at how she looks at him. It's humanizing, and he relishes in it.

He helps her into the car, she's still weak kneed and shaking, and he just wants her to calm down. He sucks in a deep breath of the salty night air as he steps around the car, rubbing at the side of his clean shaven jaw. Arleen can't help but study the way he walks, he moves with his hips, as most men do. But there's something so different about how he does it, the full, loose rotation of someone who is flexible, yet there is a tightness in other areas that Arleen can tell are injuries.

She can tell he's guilty of something. Arleen can always see that guilt, the look of someone who had taken lives or tortured someone. He had done something to someone living, that much she knew. But Arleen always stuck to her guns of innocence. He glances her way when he feels her eyes on him as he starts up the car and his brows furrow over his intense eyes at the almost sympathetic expression she's sending his way, however it's wiped away from her face before he can completely register what he saw.

His frustration grew subtly and he got them headed off, back for her secluded house, the house he won't be taking advantage of. He just can't, she's sitting there with her hands pinned between her knees and her body curled slightly as she does her best to understand what all just happened, and it hurts some part of him. He forgets that people aren't used to guns, though he knows better than to assume she isn't used to violence. He wishes he didn't.

He's so lost in his thoughts that the drive seems to go by in a flash despite taking nearly a half an hour. It's her hand on his arm that pulls him from his thoughts and he turns a bit last minute into her driveway, placing his silver Audi next to her green Jaguar. He steps around the car after tugging the keys out of the ignition, going to her side and helping her out.

As soon as she can she sucks in a deep breath of ocean air, and it all clearly calms her. The sea breeze can be felt from here they're so close to the ocean, and as 47 licks his lips all he can taste his salt. He focuses on her for a moment, and she's breathing deeply and trying to relax herself, and it appears to be working.

She's focusing on everything in the world around her. His tie flapping in inescapable wind, the waves, the sea on her lips and the light mist hitting all of her exposed skin. She's pulled out of her almost meditative like state as a car zips past going near 80, and her eyes slowly open. It was only a short while, not even half a minute, but 47 enjoyed each second of her, the wind in her hair and tugging the material of her dress. "Let's get you inside," he offers her, one large palm cupping her deltoid.

She allows him to lead her for her quaint little home, looking at the door as she finds her keys. She hadn't shared space with someone for so long since her husband, and she never realized how empty her home seemed. However, the door is open quickly, too quickly since his warm, powerful hand is on the small of her back. She turns to view him, almost eye level as she steps up slightly into her home. Between the porch and the heels, anyway.

She studies him, taking in the way his muscles are formed, his hands, the way he stands tall and proud, and she chides herself for not seeing it before. He has to be military, and she nearly rolls hers eyes at herself for not picking up on something so painfully obvious. Everything made much more sense, suddenly, and she smiled to him subtly.

"Take care, Arleen," he said, his blood red tie snapping in the wind, though he keeps in mind to pin his jacket to his sides with his arms as to not show off his illegal double holster and silverballers. Arleen smiled more in return to him. "You're still here for a week, right?" she questioned, her small hands clutching onto the jam of her door, leaning out of her home a bit.

His cold eyes meet her warm ones and he nods silently to affirm, and he watches a slow smile take over her face yet again. "Would you be... interested...," she offers pathetically, a flush bleeding across her cheeks and down into the modest cut of her dress. This finally pulls a smile from 47. "I'd love to," he promises, smiling even more as her smile grew at his answer. He had been fighting with himself between asking her out a second time and not. He had her card after all. But he found himself glad she had taken the first step.

"Lunch then? Tomorrow?" she asks, tucking that stray curl back yet again. 47 chuckles, and it's a strange, warm sound that even he isn't used to. Arleen can tell he isn't used to making it, and again she feels a pang in her chest, a desire to make him laugh more often.

"Of course. Perhaps I can get you to eat something more than a croissant," he teased softly. He's not used to teasing and joking, but he is in no way opposed to the idea of doing it more often. He can see it in her eyes that she knows he isn't used to this, and he is relieved at how she is taking him in stride.

"Goodnight, Malcolm," she whispered, her smile warm and gentle. 47 smiles again in return, he can rarely keep himself from it, it seems. "Sleep well, Arleen," he returned, bowing his head and shifting on his heels so he again faced the driveway. He glanced over his shoulder to make absolutely sure she had closed and locked her front door before he slid into the leather drivers seat, starting up his engine to drive back to the hotel room that for the first time in his life is piercingly empty.


	3. Chapter 3

Despite his being on 'vacation', he doesn't allow himself to deviate from his routines. He wakes up at the same time he always does, 5 minutes before 6, without an alarm to aid him. He always acquaints himself with his time zone by forcing himself to sleep by 10:30 no matter what. After he wakes he exercises, each day had it's own mentally programmed list, and each day was different to ensure every muscle was getting proper focus.

After the in-room exercises, he runs. Happy to have a beach at his disposal, even if it is dirty, he takes advantage of the terrain. It causes his calves to actually burn, and he relishes in the feeling of it, not often getting the chance. The sun is already well risen, even if it is just scraping past 6:30, it's the summer after all.

47 is happy to pause on the pier, looking out onto the ocean to try and figure out what had captivated Arleen so completely about it. Maybe it would help him to understand how she had wormed under his skin. He's panting through his mouth passively, not heaving for air, but he wants to ensure his lungs expand correctly. All he can taste is the musky, salty water, the dank scent of decaying kelp, and the heavy smog that hung over every inch of the city.

He shook his head to himself. Nope, he couldn't discover what was so interesting about the sea. He turned, his few minute rest over with, and ran his way back to his hotel room. From there it was a shower, cleaning the wound that got him here in the first place, and he dressed in his usual attire. He paused, however, looking down at his signature tie. He recalled her grabbing his tie, and making a joke about him wearing a different set of the same clothing.

His eyes shot from his tie to the nearby mirror. This was why he moved so often, zipping from hotel room to hotel room. No one ever got close enough to realize you had more than one set of the same outfit. If anyone noticed anything, they assumed you only had one good suit, and then you'd be gone, just another empty room with sheets tugged up out from between the mattress and the boxspring, a few towels on the floor.

He sighed to himself, tugging the tie back off and removing the knot, returning it to his suitcase. Purchasing himself a different colored tie and dress shirt wouldn't be the end of the world, he decided. And it would keep him from appearing suspicious, at least to her. Money was no object to him, he had enough to live several lifetimes. Buying some clothing to blend in wouldn't even be a drop in the bucket.

He knew his measurements by heart, he had all of his clothing tailored. But, he didn't have time for that, so he'd settle, with a sneer of disgust, for something off the rack. Thankfully, it was Los Angeles, and well made wasn't impossible to find. He was also thankful the people he had to interact with weren't half brain-dead like so many other people seemed to be in this city. He is content in his choices, even if dark dress shirts and light ties seemed, well, odd. He got more ties than he did dress shirts, she might not care to notice a dress shirt, but he was foolish in wearing a different red tie last night.

Back in his hotel room, back in front of his mirror, and he is cringing to himself at this alteration from his normal dress. However, it seemed necessary, at least if he was going to be staying in the same place for more than two days. He tipped his head once everything was in it's proper place, and decided it didn't look bad at all. The dress shirt was an almost black blue, he knew better than to double up the color black, and the tie was a lighter gray, stripes of white and black helping to break it up and blend it in with the dress shirt itself. Best of all, his guns were able to remain hidden.

He glanced to the alarm clock on his bedside table, studying the burning red numbers. Her lunch would be soon, and he wanted to be on time. He plucked his current cell phone out of his pocket, along with her business card, dialing her work number and slowly sitting down on the corner of his bed. He pressed the cheap mobile to his ear, his eyes locking onto her home address with another wave of annoyance while he listened to the dial tone.

Arleen picked up promptly, answering in her professional voice, which was quite a far cry from the whispering, gentle tone she normally used with him, though it wasn't an unpleasant tone. "A. C. Makem, criminal defense, Donovan & Gunn. How can I help you?" she greeted, studying a few pictures from a grizzly murder that she was currently working on. She had developed her iron stomach long ago, and no longer flinched over even the worst of photos.

47 smiled at her long, and well practiced, phone greeting. "You could tell me what you were interested in for lunch," he offered, and smiled wider at the faint intake of breath he could hear over the phone. "Did you forget?" he asked pleasantly, his head tipping automatically even though he knew she couldn't see him.

"Oh, oh, no. No, I didn't forget. I mean I was aware that we were having lunch together," she said, her voice turning a bit sheepish as she answered, and it was clear that she had, in some capacity, forgotten. She straightened her posture and squared her shoulders. "I suppose it slipped my mind, between my hearings today," she finally admitted, and he found himself glad to see that she was honest enough to do so.

"Do you know what you want?" he inquired. That was what you do, right? You ask for what they want? 47 was still on shaky and unsure ground with this, hopelessly lost amid the sea of dating articles and weapons manuals. His mind stored as much knowledge as he could handle, and while he currently didn't have to deal with a hit, he was still fairly full up on retained information. Remembering things from long ago finished magazines wasn't exactly his forte.

"I was hoping you would," she whispered, her jaw settling into her upturned palm, her eyes mindlessly reading the police report under one of her elbows. Her nose wrinkled to one side, her lips twisting as well.

"I picked last night," he banters, hoping to win some sort of ground with the statement. He isn't sure if it will work, but he's willing to try. The huff he hears in response tugs a broad smile to his lips. Success. He did seem to have won out, to have bested her in this instance. He would be sure to remember the trick for later, should there be a later. He tells himself there won't be.

"Something simple, then. There is a burrito place nearby. I'm buying," she said, her voice sounding final on the subject. She can hear his fumbling as he tries to figure out the best response for her, and before he can even get out half a sentence on the matter she says, "You paid last night."

His jaw drops a bit in annoyance, and yet he's amused. How good of her to turn around on him. "Alright, alright," he concedes, rising his hand to smooth over his tattoo, to remind him, but all he feels is slight stubble. It's enough for him to realize he skipped a small step on his routine. It angers him, but he manages to draw it back quickly. "Where is this burrito place?" he demands, his emotions leaking into his words.

Her brows furrow slightly at his annoyance, but she realizes he is likely only annoyed because of her turning around his winning words. "Just come to my work. The address is on the card," she points out, smiling into the phone. That way she can wait until he gets to her to clock out for lunch. Maybe they could chat about something better than their careers, even if she is alight with curiosity regarding which branch of the military he must be in. Army, she's pretty sure, but she really wants to be 100%.

He grunts an affirmative into the phone before managing to remember well enough to actually say some form of a goodbye. His hotel was in Los Angeles, and oddly not far from where she worked. Quite close to the cafe he had met her in yesterday. He was there in hardly more than 5 minutes, feeling an odd swell of awkwardness as he steps into the lobby of the firm. It's a small firm, that helps him, but it's a firm none the less.

The secretary who greets 47 is a bouncy creature, and he can't help but study the vital parts of her body, wondering how quickly he could do away with her and how long it would take for someone to notice. However, he catches a security camera out of the corner of his eye as he greets her in return, and decides against it.

"I'm here for Miss Makem," he offers, using the same smooth manners and quirks he had used on Arleen. It seems to work, though the girl cheekily corrects him with a, "Doctor Makem, and I'll go get her for you."

Hardly a minute passes before she's there, smiling to him. He can't help a small sneer from taking over his face as he realizes she's wearing a different, but similar, suit to what she had been wearing the day before. "And you got on me for wearing a similar tie?" he asks, tugging at her lapel in amusement.

She huffs at him, but allows the pulling of her suit jacket. "This is a different color," she protests. A few shades at best, even the shirt is a very similar shade to the one from yesterday. However, she's leading him for the door as they talk.

"Hardly," he teases her, holding the door for her. "Oh, and do forgive me, I was unaware you were to be called Doctor," he says, his voice mocking and sarcastic, but it's playful and light. At the affronted look that overtakes her face, and the pause in her step as she glares over her shoulder at the secretary, it's clearly some sort of in-firm joke, and she didn't want it following her out of it.

"Oh, that 'doctor' flim-flam," she hisses, her dainty hand waving dismissively as they step out into the considerably hotter air. "Don't you start up with it. It's ridiculous and childish, that's all it is," she explains, leading him down not even a block. She doesn't bother with getting in the car, it's nice exercise after sitting all day, and she can tell he can handle it.

The burrito place is small, and air conditioned, and the burritos are large, and filling. They're messy, as burritos tend to be, but it isn't anything they can't handle. She seems to know the cashier by name, in a way that suggests she comes in often to this place. 47 silently demands he be the one to carry things to the table, and she decides to just not protest.

He's able to keep his head, until she starts eating with a knife and fork, at which point he laughs that deep, warm chuckle that is quickly becoming something of a habit. The dark flush that overcomes her features only serves to further amuse him. "Sorry," he offers, his voice turning gentle to try and appease her. "You're just so dainty about everything," he said, touching at his cup of soda and sticking out his pinkie for deeper effect.

This earns him a scowl, and she huffs again at him, but tries to look all the more dainty about it, a completely obvious coy smile growing on her face. She sucks on the inside of her cheek for a moment, trying to figure out if it'll be proper but she finally decides it doesn't matter. "Are you Army or Marines?" she asked, leaning in a bit while her fork focused on spearing chicken and peppers.

"Wh-huh?" he asks, raising one brow at her. He studied her for a few moments, completely confused by what she was going on about. Finally it clicked through and he straightened his posture in his chair, laughing slightly. Perfect cover, he couldn't have thought of one better himself. "I can't tell you too much," he said right off, running his fingers down his cup to catch the condensation. He had seen her do it before, and he found enjoyment out of the new experience.

"Some type of special operations?" she asked, setting her jaw in her hands as she observed him. She's facing away from the door, but some how her eyes seem just as bright as they do outside. Her hair is down and free flowing as it had been when they first met, and there's only trace evidence of the better maintained curls that graced her hair last night.

He nods to her question, shrugging his strong shoulders to her. "Something like that. I really can't explain too much. In fact, if I told you which branch you'd figure out which spec ops I'm a part of," he pointed out before taking a bite of his food.

"One of those if you tell me you'd have to kill me?' she joked with the over-used line. She doesn't catch the full wickedness of his smile, and if she did she considered it to be him just teasing her back. In fact, if she wasn't so damn sure that he was every bit as innocent as she wanted him to be, she might have found his look positively menacing.

"Exactly like that," he hissed, The guns pressing into his sides more than reminded him that he likely should just be done with her, to get one good shot between her eyes. But there's something uplifting about a person with scars as visible as hers that still dared to hope. He's almost annoyed by how refreshing she was in so many aspects.

"It's a shame you're just vacationing," she commented, resting her jaw on her palm yet again. She's picking at her food, something she always does. She generally brings this thing back to the office with her and eats at it all day long, keeping her full and allowing her to avoid dinner.

"More like leave," he corrects. If she wanted to consider him military, he would happily play into the idea. "I'll be off again in a few days back to my, hmm, missions," he explained, trying to copy her wrinkled nose. Judging by the small laugh she let out at him, he had done an alright job. Or, perhaps, he had hopelessly failed. Either way, she had a good reaction.

"Hopefully they don't work you too hard," she offers, though her mood has dropped a bit. It was nice, she rarely gathered enough courage to speak to a stranger as she had with him, and they got along well enough.

He smiled as he caught her dropping mood. "I can try to make my way back in this direction when I get more free time," he offered her. He wants to be lying, he wants to not feel some strange pull for this woman, but he can't help it.

She smiled to him lazily, her eyes soft and her expression kind. "I'd like that. Don't push yourself, but if you're in the area I'd love to catch up for lunch or something of the sort," she returned, putting another bite of burrito filling into her mouth.

"My hours are odd," he cautioned a bit suddenly, studying her as she slowed in her chewing to give him her full attention. She inclined her head a bit to silently request he elaborate and he shrugged his shoulders in response. "I might only be around in the middle of the night," he explained, taking another large bite of his burrito.

"Oh, well, that won't bother me. I often times find myself only realizing I should go to bed when my alarm goes off in the morning. I get a lot of late night calls for people requesting a lawyer in lock up," she reassured him, most of her bite of food tucked into one cheek as she wanted to settle him on the idea without waiting to be done with the food already in her mouth.

47 licked at his teeth and fought a sigh. She was so accommodating, and he was in no way used to it. Somewhere within himself he dared to hope she would be accepting if she discovered his actual career, sometimes he was sure she had already figured him out due to the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn't looking.

She studied him for a few moments as he grew silent, and she played with her fork as she considered something for a lengthy pause. "I'm career focused, and it would appear you are, too. I'd say we're right up each other's alley," she pointed out, her voice quiet.

One of his brows perked up sharply, and he relaxed his elbow onto the table, lowering his head a bit. Like before, it should have chilled her to the core to have someone like him looking at her with the intense, penetrative stare he was giving her, but she looked death right in the face without a flinch. "I'd say so," he agreed, scanning her face to make sure she wasn't hiding anything. She innocently kept her gaze locked with his, serving only to aggravate him in some way. The woman worked with criminals day in and day out, yet she didn't seem able to see him for what he really was.

"Though I wouldn't say career focused. My life and my career are one in the same," he said after his own period of consideration. He caught it that time for sure, right as he spoke he could see the wheels in her head start to turn full pace. She was figuring things out, quickly, and it was because he was being stupid enough to expose parts of himself that not even torture could get him to show.

She eventually gives up her mental search, her nose wrinkling and her shoulders drawing up in a small shrug. "Well, as much as I'd prefer advanced notice, I suppose a surprise in the middle of the night wouldn't be the worst thing in my life," she mused, considering the routine that was her every step.

47 considered the very real possibility that it might not be him surprising her in the wee hours of the morning, but he wondered if that wasn't best. That way she would be gone and out of his life, and he wouldn't be the one stuck hiding a body. At the idea, however, his pulse shot up for a moment. He didn't have room within himself to care remotely about someone other than himself and Diana, but here he was. At least he finally understood why interaction on this level was forbidden for agents.

"You make it sound like your life is boring," he said, smirking a bit to her. He didn't think her life was so boring, and what he believed could be boring was a relief to consider. His life was far from boring, and just sitting in a home with a television on, reading a book or whatever it was normal people did. She had her own routines, of course, and he was sure they were just as tedious to her as his were to him, but he couldn't help a bit of envy at the idea of her boring life.

She laughed a quiet, meek laugh, pushing her fingers through her honey colored hair. "Well, in comparison to yours, it sure seems boring," she explained, again wrinkling her freckled nose and exposing her teeth in a smile.

"You work with criminals. How could that possibly be boring?" he countered, so wrapped up in the conversation he was starting to neglect his food, which was as surprising as the company he was keeping and whatever muddle emotion was starting up for the woman sitting across from him.

"You work with guns," she returned, but instead of simply keeping to that, she made the mistake of gesturing at him. When his brows lowered and his eyes hardened in confusion her posture turned a bit submissive to try and settle him. "You dismantled that gun yesterday, there's some powder burns on your hands, and you've been carrying a double holster," she mumbled, a hint of nervousness creeping steadily into her tone.

He straightened his shoulders a little, and while he should have been angry he ended up just mildly impressed and amused. "Have you seen the holster?" he asked, wondering how she knew exactly.

She wrinkled up her nose again, her smile a bit shaky but there none the less. "Well, only a bit of it. But your suit is tailored for a double holster," she whispered, locking her eyes with his.

"How do you know what a suit tailored for guns looks like?" he questioned, unable to keep the suspicion from his voice. He's the nervous one now, trying to figure out what her angle is, looking at her like he'd be able to decipher if she were set up for him to interact with, if she were an enemy.

"You said it yourself, Malcolm. I work with criminals," she returned, the slightest bit of snark to her words. Despite how poorly he believed he would take snark, from her it's allowable. Though he has no idea why he is able to swallow her sass but anyone else would push his anger.

"Touche," he agreed begrudgingly, huffing at her. She smiled in his direction again, but after maintaining eye contact for a few moments she glanced down to the small watch on her wrist. "I suppose I should get back to work," she whispered, looking back to him.

He nodded, settling back in his seat and scratching at his jaw as he observed her. He couldn't help himself, the words just spilled from him without first passing through his normally iron tight filter. "When are you free next?"

"I could be free tonight, but I planned to make this roast that you've already taken me away from for one night," she said, wrinkling her nose at him. "Unless you'd like a home cooked meal? Might be nicer anyway," she offered, smiling enough to bunch up her crows feet.

"I haven't had anything home cooked in a long time," he mumbled, though for him a long time meant never. He glanced down to her small hands as she worked on wrapping up the remains of her burrito, and he can see the cut and burn scars that came from someone who cooked often. He felt a bit better about the idea knowing that she probably cooked most of her food. Not to mention it would be a good way for him to decide if she was truly as innocent as she seemed, or if she did mean him harm in some way.

"Well, then it's settled. I'll try to get home around 5. I can take most of my work home," she promised him, carefully tying a plastic bag around her lunch to keep it contained. As he studied her hands he remembered how they had trembled last night, and yet here she was looking so bright and happy. From her hands his eyes shifted to her arm where he knew there to be a bruise hidden by her clothing. It took her saying his fake name twice before his eyes lifted to hers once more. He found himself frustrated that she looked, again, so damn sympathetic. "You're alright?" she asked of him, her voice gentle and quiet.

"Yeah. Uh, lost in thought," he whispered, his voice automatically shifting to mimic hers, but he doesn't notice it as he attempts to cover. His instincts are kicking in now that he was brought out of his memories and he realizes he never asked how she was doing after last night. "What about you? Are you alright?" he asked without context.

She furrowed her brows, clearly looking worried about him. She touched at his knee gently under the table, and he has to fight himself to not break her fingers. He does tighten up and locks all of his focus onto her for a few moments. "Why wouldn't I be?" she asked, concern lacing through her expression.

"Last night," he prompted, cautiously touching at her fingers in return, forcing himself to allow it so as to not seem so odd.

She bit at her lip and shrugged her shoulders, though she relaxed as she felt the rough tips of his fingers brushing over her knuckles. "I've dealt with worse. I deal with criminals, remember?" she jokes. One thing 47 was completely sure of, she seemed to joke about the things that hurt. He highly doubted whatever worse she had dealt with was thanks to a client, and again he felt that odd welling of anger in his chest.

She pressed her lips into a thin line, looking at the blur of emotions zipping through his mind, and she captured his fingers for a moment with her own, lifting her hand from his knee to do so. "Malcolm, I'm fine. I promise. I have to get back to work now, but I will see you tonight. Okay?" she asked, waiting patiently for confirmation from him.

He knew her touches were completely normal, and he forced himself to squeeze her hand carefully in return. "Alright," he returned, loosening his hold on her hand so she could free herself from him. He watched as she got up and left, casting one last worried look to him before she stepped out into the bright Southern California sun, her eyes squinting up against the sudden light change, and she headed back for her firm at a quick pace.

If she wasn't dangerous, the situation itself was quickly turning dangerous. But anytime he thought too deeply about killing her to free himself from whatever it was that was happening to him, he recalled just how she was last night and it sapped his will to harm her.

He glanced to his watch and realized he had a few hours to himself, which left him in a bad spot. What does a contract killer on vacation do with himself in Southern California?


	4. Chapter 4

It turns out that waiting for someone to get out of work was a whole lot worse than waiting for the proper time to strike a target. 47 found nothing of interest for him here in Los Angeles, between the men with their for show muscles trying to establish their dominance over a public beach, to the floozy women who hardly seemed aware of the world around them, he had a difficult time distracting himself.

Hardly two hours after watching her step out of the burrito shop he found himself standing on her porch, knowing he had more than enough time to sweep through her home. Entering her name into the ICA system to find out her history was a no-go, he couldn't have her name recorded. That was risky. All of this was risky.

He studied the lock on her wooden front door while he tugged on his leather gloves, humming to himself. His eyes dropped to the welcome mat he stood on and he stepped back one half step, lifting the corner of it with the toe of his well polished leather shoe, glaring down at the silver key he spotted easily there.

"Address on business card, works with criminals, keeps front door key in the most obvious spot," he rattled off to himself, as if he was keeping a tally of stupid things this woman did. He studied the exact position of the key before he snagged it. Maybe, just maybe, it was a decoy key. Maybe she was more careful than he was giving her credit for. His hope for that being true fell from him as the key easily slid into the lock and turned.

He tucked the key into his pocket as he stepped into the house, his head up and his back straight, all of his senses on high alert as he eased the door shut silently behind himself. He did a quick sweep of the room he was in, opening the entry closet to inspect for weapons. A grunt of pure frustration forced it's way out of him when he realized the closest thing to a weapon in the entire area was a small umbrella.

He did a sweep of her entire home, though it didn't take long as it was a fairly small residence. Her backdoor was unlocked, and he had to fight the urge to lock it, in addition to three completely open windows and two more windows fully unlocked and cracked a bit. He had to focus on her book collection to keep himself from getting too upset about her level of naivety. Thankfully, it was quite an impressive collection, and the packed bookshelves did capture his attention well.

47 had never read more than the information on his missions, or whatever magazines or newspapers he could get his hands on in the down time. Some names and titles were vaguely familiar, names of movies he had spotted in the theater section of various newspapers over the years, author names he had heard in the conversations others had around him.

He moved on, to her bedroom, and it was there that it finally struck him. There were no photos within the home. In fact, the only personal touch on a wall was a painting above her fireplace, but the rest of the house was very barren. The walls were all painted a muted color, all close to white, the floors within the house were all old but well taken care of, and very standard issue. White tiles in the kitchen and bathrooms, hardwood floors in some rooms, a sandy colored carpet in the rest of them. Despite how cozy and lived in the house seemed, it was in no way made personal.

He stepped into the bedroom, his eyes instantly drawn to the queen sized bed, only one side of the bed appeared to have ever been touched, the rest of the bed still perfectly made and undisturbed. The window over the bed was opened half way, and he sighed to himself at the sight. He lifted the pillow on the used side, hoping to find a weapon of sorts, but instead he found a very worn copy of Shakespeare's Macbeth. He made a face at the book and placed the pillow where it had been.

A small stack of case files and crime scene photos took up residence on the other side of the bed, and he picked one up to inspect the photos he found there. The mutilated body in the photos hardly seemed like something the petite lawyer wanted next to her, but as he skimmed faintly through the rest of the files he realized most of them had some type of grizzly damage to a person, and he smiled to himself. She must be as desensitized as he was to things like this. At least they had that in common.

It's with no small level of disgust that he realizes most of his anger and frustration has to do with an unfamiliar protective feeling towards her. He isn't sure why, exactly, and that just serves to further push his already frail patience to it's absolute limit. He knows the gentle woman who sleeps in the bed he is standing over will only continue to push that limit. Maybe he needs that.

He snoops around her bedroom, making sure to mentally map every single item to make sure nothing appeared disturbed. He holds out the hope that, somewhere, there's a weapon she could use. He slides her drawers open to glance within them, and freezes for a moment when he opens her underwear drawer. Normally this wouldn't phase him in the least, but the fact he had interacted with her more often than anyone else, the fact he had spotted the interest in her eyes, makes the discovery of her plain, cotton underwear jolt his pulse up. He shuts that particular drawer a bit harder than the rest.

His search is almost given up until he spots a shoebox tucked into a corner of her closet. All the pictures that should have been put into frames and hung up on the walls are tucked into this box, along with ticket stubs, a few hand written letters, a wedding ring, and divorce papers. He makes a note of the name of her ex-husband, half out of habit, half because the scars on her face serve only to anger him far more than any part of her unlocked home and lack of weapons ever could.

He checks the time on his silver wrist watch, licking at his teeth and deciding he had enough information for the moment. He stood and made sure every single item within the house was in it's proper place, and he left, locking the door and carefully placing the key under the mat once more. Despite his desire to lock up the house, he knows he can't and he just has to let her make that mistake.

He still has two hours to go, and he decides to get wine for the upcoming dinner. He doesn't know how to cook, but he does know the proper way to eat meals, and how to be a good guest. Blending in was one of the more important facets of his career. Fine dining was one of the very few luxuries he was allowed, so he found it easy to pick out the proper wine. It's the least he can do for a woman who is doing her best to force his hand and make him unable to pay for a meal.

He is just starting to consider which building would have the best position for watching her firm and waiting for her to be done with work for the day, when his phone buzzes against his wounded side. He doesn't even grimace at the faint burst of pain that envelopes his torso. He picks up and answers with nothing more than a grunt.

Her quiet laughter greets him in return. "I'll be done with work soon. Do you want to go ahead and make your way to my place?" she asks, showing off that far past naïve level of trust that makes him tighten his grip on his cell phone.

"Half an hour?" he questions for clarification. She merely hums at him in response. He gives her yet another grunt of confirmation and hangs up the phone. It isn't lost on him that their 'conversation' hardly consisted of actual words, speaking as if they had some deep understanding. The thought alone makes him cast his eyes skyward and groan quietly.

He doesn't bother changing, she won't have the luxury either, and he has a feeling she's going to be doing her best to get him to relax, if only for a moment. He sets himself to be as alert as possible. Despite his proof against her being a harm to him, he always must err to the side of caution. It's all that has saved him more times than he wishes to consider.

He makes it there first, but she isn't far behind him. He steps out of his Audi and tucks the bottle of wine in the crook of his elbow as he locks the car. She looks tired as she get out of her car, but it seems to lessen when she smiles to him. His lips tighten a bit in mild annoyance at just how genuine she appeared. He deals with liars and cheats constantly in his line of work, but truly genuine people are rare and it takes away all familiarity he hoped to have.

He stepped around the car to her as she waited for him, and she thanked him for the wine with a whisper and a smile that showed off her teeth, wrinkles, and scars. He realizes he should ask after her day, so as he walks along side her for her front door he smooths down his tie to keep it from flapping around in the breeze and asks, "How was work?"

Interaction is nothing short of awkward for him, and it must show in his voice as she shoots him a look that plainly says she appreciates him trying. "No different than work any other day," she responds with a shrug of her shoulders. Though the words should have been said with annoyance or exacerbation, she says them with something of a fondness. Despite what her tone says, her eyes say something different and he finds it nothing short of interesting that the look in her eyes is the same one he sees when he stares at himself in the mirror after a shower.

She opens the front door and gestures for him to go ahead first, while returning the question to him. He's so busy being caught up in doing a visual sweep of the home he knows to be horribly unguarded that he answers with the word, "Long." He doesn't realize his slip until she hums a disappointed sound at him.

He glances back to her, sliding out of her suit jacket and hanging it up in the entry way. "You're not very good at this whole vacation thing, are you?" she questioned of him. She realized that 'long' simply seemed to be his response to how any given day was.

"What do you mean?" he asked, tipping his head at her, watching the dainty way she got her heels off, putting them right next to her briefcase. She walked past him while she rolled up the sleeves of her dress shirt, glancing over her shoulder at him and giving him a very unintentional come hither type look. Regardless of the intent, it caused a warmth to hit his chest, and he remembered exactly what about her had captured his attention in the first place.

"Last night you said your day was long," she explained once he had followed her to the mouth of the kitchen, his eyes inspecting her suit. She always seemed to wear three piece suits, and he found himself considering taking a page from her book.

"Maybe all of my days are long," he retorted, setting the wine bottle on the counter and resting his hips against it, his strong arms folding across his chest, his icy blue eyes keeping a lock on her.

"Maybe you need to get more fun out of life," she returned with a firm look of her own, though where his was a cold, unemotional stare, hers had warmth and good intentions. She smiled at the stoney look that graced his features, her nose wrinkling up as she got to work setting up dinner.

She clearly made this dish often, as she performed the task of preparing it with absolute ease, just as mechanical as he likely looked when cleaning his guns. He found it funny that someone could look like that setting up a meal, and yet at the same time he was fairly enthralled by the process. It was something he had never gotten to watch.

Arleen pushed her hair back out of her face with one hand as her other closed the oven door. "Well, that will take a few hours," she told him, her eyes locking onto his face. "You can take off your coat and get comfortable," she offered gently, moving to the sink to wash her hands again. "I promise I won't stare at your guns," she whispered, locking her eyes onto him with a sidelong glance.

He tightened up his shoulders, having almost forgotten that she had mentioned knowing about the holster he wore. She wrinkled up her nose at his response, rubbing her hands with a dishtowel to dry them, her slender shoulders lifting up in a warm shrug. "If you're more comfortable with the suit jacket on, by all means," she suggested, and instantly switched the topic to if he wanted something to drink.

47 had assumed that the next four hours would pass by slow, but talking to her, or rather listening to her as he did very little speaking, made the time move along at a decent pace. He figured out the right questions to ask, knowing just what to say to get her to speak at length about this or that. The fire she got in her eyes when he questioned her about second chances served only to fuel his interest.

If she was so damn adamant about giving murderers and rapists and drug dealers chance after chance after chance, maybe he had some type of hope. Why he cared for the acceptance he wasn't sure. He was the best of the best, the elite, most sought after contract killer. His acceptance came in the form of his well filled bank accounts and how desired he was as a hitman. He didn't need the acceptance of some criminal defense attorney in a shit hole like Los Angeles. And yet he wanted it.

Just over three hours later found him standing next to her as she opened up the roast pan, his head tipping at the meal. She glanced to him and chuckled softly at the expression on his face. "It's not the most presentable of things, but it's hearty," she promised, letting it sit for a moment as she opened the wine he had brought.

47 studied the way she way she went about opening the wine, her hands well practiced at the motion. He had been through every inch of her home, and had only seen a few wine bottles tucked into her pantry, all but one of them cooking wines, and not a drop of alcohol in the house besides. Instantly he knew where he had seen the same ease, and that was the waiters at the restaurants he slunk into for targets, or to indulge in his few given luxuries.

She noticed his staring as she got the cork free. "What?" she asked, a faint laugh to her words as she poured the wine, her eyes not leaving him though she didn't overflow the wine in the least. She sat down the wine, tipping her head and causing some of her hair to fall from behind her ear, studying him.

"You were a waitress?" he stated more than asked, but he caught his near slip up and corrected the influx of his words at the last second. He catches the look that overtakes her face, one of amusement, but she nods and gets back to work on pouring wine, allowing him his slip up without laughing or poking him for it.

"All through college," she responds, moving the now full glasses to the table before getting to work on shifting the roast into bowls. "I also interned at a nearby firm. It was great practice for no sleep. I thought things like that would have gotten easier after passing the bar, but you get so many cases you end up with no time to rest," she continued, her voice soft as if recalling some fond memory.

To 47, sleep is important, as important as his missions. For her to be interacting with him means she isn't doing her work, nor sleeping. Neither seems like it should be ignored. "Either it got better, or you're ignoring your job," he further observed, his voice holding a bit of a dark tone. Ignoring work didn't sit well for him, though he was fairly sure she wouldn't awaken in a blank hospital room for not studying every fact in a case, it still didn't bode well for him.

She shrugged her shoulders in response, and held out his now filled bowl for him. "I'm ignoring work, but it's alright. Actual human interaction trumps reading the same case file 15 times and hoping there is something to work with. Besides, I've got a coffee maker," she said, patting the nearby large pot with a hand after he, automatically, took the offered dish.

She got them both to the table, biting back another suggestion that he get out of that suit jacket. She still had hers off, and her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She knew his suit was far nicer than hers, and though she could tell how poised he was she didn't want him to stain that pure white dress shirt. Of course, she was utterly ignorant to just how many shirts 47 went through in a year, and for far worse stains than a bit of juice from her roast.

47 wonders idly if he can trick her into discussing her ex-husband, though he can only assume as he listens to her dance around a few years of her life that she tries to just pretend it never happened. She's open about most other aspects, her parents, her two brothers one older one younger, her high school days, and recent times. But it seemed almost as if the moment she hit college, until she moved down to Malibu, was completely off limits.

Sure, she would mention those basics of college, small anecdotes where maybe first names were mentioned, but beyond that no matter how he asked a question he couldn't get her to break on the subject. Of course, he didn't _need_ her to talk about it. 47 knew how to catalog injuries, he could read most of her life from that period of time just by the writing on her skin.

Arleen remains perfectly oblivious to the inner workings of his mind, though she can tell he is really intent as he studies her. She wonders if he is truly listening, and she starts to recite Macbeth instead of actually discussing the subject she had been.

She only managed to get out two words before 47's eyes locked onto hers and sharpened in confusion, and alertness. It seemed so sudden, so odd, and he wondered if something had happened to her. A stroke, or maybe it was a code word of sorts. His head ducked down and he glanced around the small dining room to look for potential danger.

So focused was he that he nearly broke her wrist when she laid her hand upon his to try and settle him down, but as he snapped his focus back onto her he found her leaning in with a concerned expression. "What's the matter, Malcolm?" she asked, her voice colored with her worry for him.

"You spoke oddly," he informed her, his distrust still obvious in his eyes, and he studied her as if trying to find the best way to kill her. His confusion mounted as she laughed quietly, her nose wrinkling up in a way that made his chest tighten. He hated how much he loved it.

"It seemed like you weren't listening. I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice just as genuine as ever, which again served only to frustrate him. 47 was a man who received few apologies and gave out even less. To get such a heartfelt one over something so petty, so small, was almost as off putting as her suddenly reciting a book mid-sentence.

He gave himself a few moments to resettle, to lower his proverbial hackles, and he cleared his throat as he straightened his posture. "What were you reciting?" he asked, able to tell from just a few words when someone is speaking from memory. He needed this skill for torturing information out of others, to know when their confessions were trained responses or truthful admission.

"Macbeth," she answered, but at the intrigued expression on his face she further offered, "It's a play by Shakespeare."

"Why did you recite that?" he asked, wondering if he could corner her this way. He hates that he can't get the information he wants out of her. There is no reason to desire it, no true need as far as he was concerned. Maybe it's because he is never unable to get the information he wants, but he already knows, so why does it matter to him at all? He ignores the small, beaten down part of himself that says he wants to be so close to another that they can share a secret between each other.

Arleen shrugged her petite, freckled shoulders, though those freckles were invisible 47 already had a mental map of them. "It's my favorite representative of the written word," she whispered in answer, studying him with her bright, warm hazel eyes.

"Any particular reason?" he asked, his muscles tightening up. He may have her yet, and he is unconsciously waiting for the right moment to strike, to catch her at her most vulnerable.

Again, she shrugs. "Got me through some rough times in my life," she explained softly, and he can almost hear the approaching defeat.

He puts on his best perplexed expression, and asks her the silent question he can instantly tell she can't ignore. She bites her bottom lip as she studies his face, her eyes tightening in consideration, showing off the scars that dotted her freckled skin. He spots the surrender in her eyes before she can tug her eyes from him, before her posture slumps as she gives in.

"Well," she whispered, pausing to sip at her wine for courage, and for a moment to gather her words. "I was once married," she explained, glancing back to him in a fairly submissive manner. The look on his face made clear he wanted elaboration. "We weren't as compatible as we originally believed we were," she whispered, a bit of a cringe cutting into her features.

It was in that moment that 47 fully understood what trust was. He had been ready to strike, to ask questions and drag every drop of information out of her, and she had trusted him to not, to bite his tongue, read her posture, and to allow the subject to slide past them. He considered for a moment before mimicking a gesture she had made earlier, settling his warm hand over one of hers.

Her muscles, which he hadn't fully realized just how tightened up they were, loosened with his offered comfort. She turned her hand over under his palm, curling her thin fingers around his wrist in silent thanks. The gesture caused him to tighten subtly, but the look on her face, the gratitude and the rawness, was enough to relax him again.

The silence that settled between them was one of a strange comfort. 47 was well used to silence, but often when he was alone, or maybe with a corpse. Generally when in the presence of another person it was anything but quiet. They would be screaming from pain, fear, or anger. He even allowed himself a moment after finishing his plate to let his eyes shut, soaking in the comfort of her presence. It was motherly, peaceful, kindly, almost automatically loving. It was strange, completely, but in the very best of ways.

She cleared the table, and he studied her from his position as she washed the dishes, finding it fascinating in some way he couldn't hope to explain. She had just touched the back of her chair when he finally spoke again. "I'll be leaving again soon," he informed her, and he realized how heartless his tone had been as a look overtook her features.

She almost looked as if she had been struck, and she dropped into the chair without quite as much grace as she could have held. "When?" she asked softly, already schooling her expression, her tone, her posture.

"Day after tomorrow. Early in the morning," he informed her, trying to soften his tone for her, wanting to smooth away the startled pain he had seen flash across her face. "I'll be back as soon as I can," he offered, lying completely. He couldn't be back to see her again, and finding the time to do so would be next to impossible. And, though he would never admit it, he feared that his returning to her would get her the attention of men far worse than her husband.

She nodded her head, biting down on her bottom lip again, dropping her gaze down and away. He clenched his jaw, his teeth pressing together. Often times, he lived for that moment of breaking a person in some way, savoring the slumped posture and the pain in their eyes. He burned each person at that moment into his mind, and despite himself he did the same with her. He knew it would be what he saw when he laid his head down to sleep that night.

There was nothing to savor in further breaking an already beaten down woman, the only crimes she committed being loneliness, naivety, and a penchant for forgiving and accepting the worst of people, him included.

The silence had twisted into something so far from comfort that 47 almost felt right at home in the sullen tension.

Their wine glasses emptied quickly despite their passive attempts and lengthening their time together. There was no fighting the unspoken agreement that after their wine was gone, he too would be. She followed him to the front door, dwarfed by his height without her heels, and as he turned back to her after stepping down out of her front door she reached out tentatively to grab his tie.

"Be careful, Malcolm," she pleaded to him, her fingers draws along the blood red silk as she released him. He tipped his head, fighting the slight swell of arousal at her grabbing his tie, surprised by her yet again. She so genuinely wished for him to be safe, and he was so unused to it, that together it served only to intensify the attraction he knew he would never give in to. Though he knew she had no idea just how dangerous his work truly was, he could make believe that she did, if only for a moment.

Playing pretend was fun, but 47 knew it was time to end it. He touched at her chin against his mental planning, drawing his thumb across her bottom lip. The heat in his stomach made him weak in the knees as he saw that same heat in her eyes and watched her lips part subtly, as if to grant him access.

"I will," he promised, and hated himself for the sheer amount of him that, genuinely, was promising her to take care of himself on his next missions. Even if he had no intention of ever seeing her again, he felt such a strong need to.

It was such a fleeting moment before his hand was gone, and Arleen watched him as he stepped away, his confident, purposeful stride taking him back to his Audi within moments. Arleen couldn't help watching the car disappear around the curve of the highway, heading back for Los Angeles, feeling just as weak kneed as he had, her throat dry and her breath hard to catch.

She whispered one final goodbye, though he had never given her a chance to do so when he had been right in front of her, into the coastal wind before shutting and locking her door. She wondered if she would get to see him one last time before he would be off into another dangerous situation, or if she would have to wait until he returned, fully trusting him to come back some day.


End file.
